


Companions: Cliffjumper

by inkand_paper (Fabuest)



Series: Companions Universe [2]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: First Time, Light BDSM, M/M, Master/pet Society, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 10:46:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fabuest/pseuds/inkand_paper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Heavily inspired by <span class="ljuser"></span><a href="http://eaten-by-bears.dreamwidth.org/profile"><img class="ContextualPopup-trigger"/></a><a href="http://eaten-by-bears.dreamwidth.org/"><b>eaten_by_bears</b></a>'s <a href="http://eaten-by-bears.dreamwidth.org/7712.html?thread=10016#cmt10016">meta</a> for how Cliffjumper lost his virginity.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Companions: Cliffjumper

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by [](http://eaten-by-bears.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**eaten_by_bears**](http://eaten-by-bears.dreamwidth.org/)'s [meta](http://eaten-by-bears.dreamwidth.org/7712.html?thread=10016#cmt10016) for how Cliffjumper lost his virginity.

"Nice. Got a seat with a view."  
  
The mech sitting in front of him glanced back, and Cliffjumper tipped his fingers in a mock salute. “Hey, shiny. Nice aft.”  
  
Tall’n’shiny’s optics glinted, and his lips pulled into a sneer. “Nicer than yours, shortcache.”  
  
Cliffjumper forced himself not to bristle at the nickname, forced himself to grin instead. “Sure is,” he said, because he was going to get to shiny before he let shiny get to him. Even if there wasn’t really anything special about shiny’s aft.  
  
Tall’n’shiny snorted and turned away, muttering something like “fraggin’ hip hugger”. Cliffjumper scowled at his back. Fragger.  
  
The mech at the front—Cliffjumper couldn’t see who it was because the seat he’d chosen had no view _but_ of tall’n’shiny’s aft; probably some lab grunt—was rattling on about the Autobots’ science and engineering department as if it was remotely interesting to a bunch of mechs who were headed straight for the front lines once they got through training. Half a breem in, he was already bored out of his processor.  
  
“Hey. You. Tall’n’shiny.” Cliffjumper leaned forward and prodded tall’n’shiny in the back. “Anyone sitting there?” he asked, pointing at the seat next to him when shiny turned to look at him.  
  
“Did your optics short out or something?” shiny snapped. Cliffjumper was pretty sure he’d phrased it that way on purpose. He pretended not to notice.  
  
“That a no, then? Good. I can’t see past your sparkly aft.” Not that he really cared about being able to see the lecturer, but he’d take any opportunity to get under shiny’s plating. He climbed over the low backed bench and dropped into the spot next to tall’n’shiny’s shiny aft.  
  
Shiny glared at him for a klik, then huffed and stared forward at the speaker, who was tall and red and turquoise, incredibly boring, and apparently unable to use small words.  
  
Cliffjumper was about to start pestering him again when shiny suddenly shot him a smirk and deliberately shifted closer, closing the gap between them on the bench, and then returned to ignoring him. His optics narrowed. What was the fragger playing at?  
  
A klik later he got an answer when shiny’s field brushed across his, smug and superior, taunting him. So that was how it was going to be, was it? Two could play at that game.  
  
Cliffjumper pulled a datapad and stylus from subspace and shuffled a bit as if trying to get into a comfortable position to take notes from—as if he would take notes on this—somehow ending up closer to shiny by the time he was finished. Shiny ignored him, but another half a breem later he’d shifted close enough that Cliffjumper could feel the normal charge of their systems swapping static between their nearly-touching thighs.  
  
If shiny thought Cliffjumper was going to back down first, he had one pit of a lesson to learn about the stubborn, single-processored obstinacy hardcoded into the minibot frame type. He made a show of scribbling on his datapad, and if his elbow bumped into tall’n’shiny’s arm, it was purely by accident, of course. A note of _oops/unintentional_ and _mocking/insincere_ in his field made that clear.   
  
Tall’n’shiny didn’t even bother to be subtle about his next move. His hand dropped onto Cliffjumper’s thigh, and his field challenged Cliffjumper to protest.  
  
Cliffjumper smirked and groped shiny’s shiny aft unrepentantly.  
  
Shiny squeezed his thigh and dragged his hand up it, closer to Cliffjumper’s interface panel.  
  
And that was when Cliffjumper realised he was out of his depth, because that… that had felt good. He felt a momentary flash of uncertainty, wondering just how far this was going to go—they hadn’t drawn any attention yet, but much more along this track and they were bound to—on top of which, he had little to no practical experience with this sort of thing—but he shoved that thought aside. Like pit was he going to back down now.  
  
He gave a short, sharp rev of his engine and shifted to widen the space between his legs, bringing one thigh flush against tall’n’shiny’s yellow plating. A few mechs in the room turned their helms at the sound; tall’n’shiny glared at them until they looked away again.  
  
Several kliks ticked by, and Cliffjumper was almost starting to think he’d won the encounter—shiny seemed reluctant to escalate further. Then an invitation to a new comm channel with one other participant popped up on his HUD. He pinged in warily.  
  
« If you want to get closer to me so badly, why don’t you just sit on my lap? »  
  
Any doubt about who the other participant was disappeared. The implied tone was smug. He didn’t think Cliffjumper would do it.  
  
« You wanna cuddle, shiny? All you had to do was ask, » Cliffjumper shot back, shoving the hand on his leg aside so he could scramble up on top of shiny’s thighs. He settled himself as comfortably as he could, leaning against tall’n’shiny’s chest like it was nothing. The scowl that crossed shiny’s face was a beautiful sight to behold.  
  
One klik was all it took for shiny to recover himself, and then there were warm ventilations blowing over Cliffjumper’s horns. He must have felt the shiver that went down Cliffjumper’s backstrut, because the comm channel lit up again.  
  
« You like that, huh? »  
  
« So what if I do? » Cliffjumper tilted his helm up to mouth at tall’n’shiny’s neck cables—he’d seen that done in a couple of vids and he hoped the cables were as sensitive as the vids made them look or he was going to look really stupid. « Thought that was the point. »  
  
Tall’n’shiny growled and yanked his chin up, and for half a klik he thought he’d done it wrong. But then there were lips hovering over his, close enough to feel the prickling static buzz of shiny’s systems, and he must have been right about the neck cables because shiny was escalating.  
  
He hesitated again, optics flicking up to meet shiny’s. The lips so close to his own curled up in a smirk, and his hesitation disappeared. There was no fragging way Cliffjumper was going to let tall’n’shiny win this game. Holding the bigger mech’s gaze, he swiped his glossa over his lips, wetting them, and deliberately darkened his optics as he gave shiny a coy smile.  
  
« You gonna finish what you started, shiny? »  
  
Tall’n’shiny’s field flicked out in irritation; clearly Cliffjumper hadn’t done what he’d expected, and he wasn’t happy about being the one to initiate the kiss. His only other option was to give up, though, and apparently shiny was almost as stubborn as Cliffjumper himself, because his lips closed over Cliffjumper’s, hard and forceful.  
  
The low moan that escaped him and the liquid heat that doused his circuits and his field weren’t faked—not that he would ever admit it, not to anybody, not in a hundred million vorn. He’d kissed another mech once, a friend he used to fool around with when he wasn’t working third shift. It had been shy and testing, the first time for both of them, and it was pretty boring. Not like this.  
  
He’d been a little revved before, sure; tall’n’shiny wasn’t bad on the optics, and the groping, though he hadn’t thought it would get nearly this far, was the closest he’d ever really come to a real interface. But now—frag. His fans kept trying to switch on to dump the excess heat in his systems, but he wasn’t going to give tall’n’shiny that satisfaction. Especially not when it was the way the kiss felt like being claimed that provoked the reaction.  
  
He parted his lips under the kiss instead, flicking his glossa out and across shiny’s lower lip in an invitation that he would swear later was mocking. Steadying himself with a hand on shiny’s shoulder, he shifted around so he was facing the bigger mech, straddling his lap, and pressed in close.  
  
« Scratch my finish and I’ll scrap you, shortcache, » shiny growled over the comm, but his grip on Cliffjumper’s chin was still firm and he clearly had no intention of letting the minibot back off as his glossa thrust in to plunder his mouth.  
  
« You would care about that. I’m gonna leave my paint all over you so everyone knows you fragged a mini. »  
  
Cliffjumper ground his covered interface array down against shiny’s, more than a little gratified to feel that shiny was almost as hot as he was, and it wasn’t until shiny snarled and grabbed at his crotch, palm pressing hard against the retractable panel there in a way that made Cliffjumper moan and squirm, that he realised what he’d just said.  
  
With his hips rocking between shiny’s hand and his heated interface array, Cliffjumper decided that he may as well go all the way; he’d never planned for it to go this far, but he’d never planned on backing down, either. « If you want under my plating so badly, » he mocked, « why don’t you just suck on my spike? »  
  
Tall’n’shiny stood suddenly, and frag if Cliffjumper’s valve didn’t release a rush of lubricant at the easy way shiny picked him up, like he didn’t weigh a thing. His legs wrapped around shiny’s waist, large hands holding him up by the aft and thighs, and he tried not to squirm when he remembered that they were still in the stupid lecture hall, with the speaker at the front blathering on about weapons production and high-speed repair nanites.  
  
“We’ll be back,” shiny snapped, turning on his heel to march himself and Cliffjumper out of the room. “Maybe.”  
  
They found an empty room three doors down. Tall’n’shiny dumped Cliffjumper unceremoniously on the conference table at the center, optics burning as he pinned him down and palmed his array cover again.  
  
“You want me to suck your spike, you better open your panel,” he commanded.  
  
Cliffjumper’s hips bucked into his hand, spike pressurising rapidly behind his cover and valve dripping fluid. “Why don’t you make me?” he challenged, trying to buy himself time as he flipped frantically through his list of command codes to find the one that would bare his array.  
  
And then suddenly it wasn’t a hand on his crotch anymore, it was a hot, wet mouth, all lapping glossa and hard suction. Cliffjumper jerked, his vision fritzing out in a haze of static, and he might have screamed. At least he didn’t have to worry about the command code anymore, though, because his panel popped open of its own accord and his spike sprang up, pressure channels filled to maximum capacity and fluid already leaking from its tip.  
  
“Built to scale, I see,” shiny sneered, wrapping a hand around the base and giving it a strong, rough pull. “But at least it’s not ugly.”  
  
Cliffjumper spat static. His fans were howling, and he still had to pant through his intakes to try to keep his temperature from soaring into the red. He wanted to lift his helm to look—he’d never seen his own spike—but it seemed too heavy to move.  
  
Shiny’s hand left his spike, but it was replaced by a hot mouth closing around the tip before Cliffjumper could think to complain. Shiny’s glossa lashed across the fluid channels, pulling a ragged sob from Cliffjumper’s vocaliser, and then that mouth was moving down, taking more of him in.  
  
Cliffjumper had never felt anything like this. His spike was encased in slick heat, a glossa pressing hard against the underside, and he knew it was supposed to be good but he’d never imagined—he was utterly defenseless against the pleasure, reduced to writhing under tall’n’shiny, hands searching for something, anything, to grab and hold onto, to anchor himself, but the smooth surface of the table beneath him offered nothing.  
  
He didn’t think it could get any better. And then shiny started to suck, and proved him wrong.  
  
“Nnnnn _nngaahhh_ —shiny, frag, I don’t—”  
  
“My designation,” tall’n’shiny growled, clear and unobstructed, leaving Cliffjumper gasping at the absence of heat on his spike, “is Sunstreaker. Remember it, hornball, because I expect to hear you screaming it when you overload.”  
  
Cliffjumper nodded frantically, fists clenching hard at his side and hips squirming with need. “Sunstreaker,” he panted. “Sunstreaker, Sunstreaker, please.” If he wanted to hear his name, Cliffjumper would say it as many times as it took to get that mouth back on his spike.  
  
“Better,” Sunstreaker said, and Cliffjumper didn’t have to look to know that he was smirking again. He didn’t care. All that mattered now was the heat of Sunstreaker’s mouth, the wet slide of it, the way it felt when he flicked his glossa over the tip of Cliffjumper’s spike or sucked on the length of it.  
  
Sunstreaker took the tip of him into his mouth again, swirling his glossa around it, and Cliffjumper keened.  
  
« You put on a pretty good show, » Sunstreaker commented as his helm lowered over Cliffjumper’s spike. « Not bad for a shortcached little hornball. Keep it up, » —he paused when the tip of Cliffjumper’s spike bumped against the back of his throat, pinning the minibot’s hips to the table as he thrashed— « and I might not even mind if you leave a few paint streaks by the time I’m done fragging that wet little port of yours. »  
  
His mouth drew up over Cliffjumper’s spike again, denta scraping over it, and Cliffjumper screamed Sunstreaker’s name. He didn’t know how he would tell when he had overloaded, but if the hot bliss flooding his every circuit and making his optics flare white with charge was it, he thought he might die happy for having felt it.  
  
Then Sunstreaker’s finger traced over the seams of the panel covering his valve, spreading around the slick beads of lubricant that had leaked through. « Look how wet for me you are. You’re going to feel good around my spike, » he leered over the comm, taking Cliffjumper’s spike in again.  
  
Cliffjumper’s whole frame shuddered; words spilled from his vocaliser, most of them probably garbled but Sunstreaker’s name was recognisable, repeated over and over. He reached blindly for Sunstreaker’s helm as his spike hit the back of his throat again, but Sunstreaker slapped him away.  
  
« Don’t touch me. Greedy thing, aren’t you? »  
  
His glossa pressed up hard against the bottom of Cliffjumper’s spike again, but this time instead of bobbing his head back up, he swallowed. The flexible tubing of his intake drew Cliffjumper in, rippling and compressing round him, and Cliffjumper’s vocaliser fritzed, pops of static and high electronic keens coming out between panting gasps.  
  
« Come on, » Sunstreaker encouraged. « Overload. I’m going to frag you through this table when you’re done. Didn’t think you’d be so hot. »  
  
Sunstreaker’s intake tube flexed again, and again, and Cliffjumper wailed as he realised that this, this was overload. His frame went rigid, spike pumping pressurising fluid into Sunstreaker’s intake, and a crackling tide of pure electric sensation swamped every sensor, internal and external. The charge was routed out toward his plating, where it snapped away from him in sizzling arcs to ground itself in the table and in Sunstreaker. It seemed to last forever, and the quiet moan vibrating through his spike and continued sensation as Sunstreaker swallowed and swallowed only served to draw it out longer.  
  
Finally, he fell limp. His fans whirred, vents pulling in cool air and dumping heat as fast as they could, and he groaned. He barely noticed when Sunstreaker pulled off of him, gave his spike one last, long lick, then wiped his mouth.  
  
“Liked that, did you?”  
  
Cliffjumper didn’t have the energy to draw the reverse sign of the globe between spark and processor, but he pointed the two weakest fingers of his right hand in an abbreviated gesture. “I’ve had better,” he mumbled.  
  
Sunstreaker snorted. “Don’t lie to me. You’ve never used that spike before. It’s obvious. And even if I wasn’t the only one who’d ever touched it, I’d still be the best.”  
  
A thread of embarrassment creeped through Cliffjumper’s processor and into his field. How in the pit had Sunstreaker known? Frag, he’d probably looked like an idiot.  
  
“Modest, aren’t you?” he muttered, shoving the embarrassment aside. He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked down his frame at his spike, depressurised and partially retracted into its housing now. Silvery, with a slightly red tint to it, it was thicker than he would have thought, and it was shiny with a slick coating of oral lubricant and pressurising fluid.  
  
Sunstreaker leaned over him, distracting him from his curious observation as long arms framed him in.  
  
“You don’t have to be modest when you’re me,” he said, smirking, and considering what he’d just done with his mouth, Cliffjumper didn’t entirely disagree. “You gonna tell me your designation, or should I just keep calling you shortcache?”  
  
He scowled. “It’s Cliffjumper, and if you call me that one more time I’m gonna dent your pretty face.”  
  
Sunstreaker’s field pulsed smugly at something Cliffjumper had said, but he was looking somewhere else. Between Cliffjumper’s legs, he realised, just as Sunstreaker met his optics again and said, “I want your valve. Are you wet enough to take me?”  
  
Cliffjumper hesitated. His valve was definitely wet, and spiralling down hungrily at the thought of being filled, but he’d never used it before and had no idea how much it could take or if Sunstreaker would even fit.  
  
“I don’t know,” he finally said, but his legs were already spreading wide because he wanted to find out.  
  
Sunstreaker laughed. His fingers scraped bluntly over Cliffjumper’s valve cover, just as Cliffjumper found the right command code to open it. Lubricant dripped down to form a small puddle on the table under his aft, and Sunstreaker’s optics darkened. He swiped two fingers through the puddle, then held them up, turning them so they glistened in the light.  
  
“You want my spike bad, don’t you?”  
  
Cliffjumper swallowed, nodded. “Lemme see it.”  
  
Sunstreaker’s panel retracted and his spike immediately pressurised, pewter grey, longer and thicker than Cliffjumper’s, though it tapered enough that it didn’t look like it would hurt going in. Sunstreaker smeared the lubricant on his fingers over the length of it, then started slowly stroking it. Cliffjumper’s fans hitched. His valve clutched hungrily, and he licked his lips, unable to look away.  
  
Sunstreaker smirked. “Bit of a slut, aren’t you?” he asked. “I want to see you get yourself ready for me.” At Cliffjumper’s confused look, he laughed again. “You didn’t think I would just shove it in, did you? Two fingers to start, in your valve.”  
  
Cliffjumper shifted to prop himself up with a hand on the table, then did as he was told. Touching the valve’s rim felt good, enough to send a shiver up his backstrut, and when he pushed two fingers into himself… he’d been expecting the same incredible pleasure that had come with touching his spike, but this felt only strange. There was something inside of him where there hadn’t been before, and he couldn’t seem to process the sensory data. He was slippery enough with lubricant that it was easy to push his fingers further in despite the way his valve cycled down, suddenly resisting the intrusion, but he frowned.  
  
“That’s it,” Sunstreaker encouraged, voice a sultry purr. His optics were fixed on Cliffjumper’s valve, hand still lazily stroking and squeezing his own spike. “Twist them around a bit, see if you can find a spot that feels good. You need to relax into it.”  
  
Cliffjumper shuttered his optics, concentrating. His fingers moved, and the slide against the rim of his valve sparked little bursts of pleasure, but the inside still felt strange and uncomfortable. The heat that had built up in his circuits slowly faded as he searched for the illusory pleasure.  
  
Finally, just as he was sliding his fingers back out, ready to give up, he brushed over something that wasn’t exactly pleasant, but wasn’t unpleasant either. His fingers had almost withdrawn competely by the time it registered. He pushed back in, not as deep as before, searching for that spot again, and when his fingers slipped over it a second time, it felt almost… nice.  
  
The sensor seemed to respond to friction rather than direct pressure, and his hand slowly began to move in shallow thrusts, just enough to rub over the sensor and back. With each pass, his processor seemed to understand the data it was receiving a little better, and a pleasant warmth started there and spread through his valve. He got more confident, pulling out further and thrusting in deeper, and it was starting to feel the way he’d expected it to in the first place.  
  
“There’s my little slut,” Sunstreaker growled once Cliffjumper had settled into a faster, harder rhythm. “Three fingers now, and keep fragging yourself. You look good like that, all spread out for me.”  
  
Cliffjumper moaned, his circuits heating up with more arousal than embarrassment at Sunstreaker’s words, and he added a third finger to the two already thrusting into his valve. It was uncomfortable again for a few kliks, but he knew now that it could, _would_ feel good, and he didn’t slow down. More lubricant dribbled down to the table as his valve released it to keep the movements smooth and his hips began to hitch up to meet his hand with each thrust, and then Sunstreaker’s hand closed around his wrist, stilling him.  
  
“I think that’s enough,” he said, ignoring Cliffjumper’s whine and the way his hips squirmed to continue. “Your first overload is going to be around _me_. Move your hand.”  
  
Cliffjumper pulled out reluctantly. A klik later, Sunstreaker grabbed his hips, yanked him forward to the edge of the table, and sank into him.  
  
“Frag, that’s good,” Sunstreaker groaned. “So hot and wet for me, such a good little slut.”  
  
Sunstreaker’s spike was bigger than Cliffjumper’s fingers and it moved differenty, less flexible, but Cliffjumper moaned as it penetrated him. Different, but good—it moved over so many more of his sensors at one time than his hand ever could have done, lighting the inside of him up with pleasure.  
  
“Deeper,” he urged. “I want more.”  
  
“You really are a slut, aren’t you?” Sunstreaker’s lips curled into a smirk again, and Cliffjumper was distracted by the wet sheen of them—oral lubricant and his own pressurising fluid, and he had the sudden urge to lean forward and suck them clean.  
  
“No,” he said, resisting the urge. “I’ve never—”  
  
“I guess that just makes you _my_ slut.” Sunstreaker pulled out, then thrust back in, hard, sinking more of his length into Cliffjumper’s valve. Cliffjumper arched back and cried out, his legs wrapping around Sunstreaker’s hips to try to urge him into doing that again.  
  
Sunstreaker obliged him, quickly settling into a hard, driving rhythm that left Cliffjumper unable to process much beyond the heat pounding into his valve, the friction and the crackle of charge between them. He clung to Sunstreaker’s shoulders, fingers scraping across glossy yellow plating as they tightened and released unconsciously in time with Sunstreaker’s thrusts.  
  
“If you leave paint scrapes,” Sunstreaker growled warningly.  
  
Cliffjumper tried to laugh, but it came out as a moan. He clamped down on his vocaliser, silencing it, and sent his reply by comm instead. « Told you I was going to. Everyone’s going to know what you did in here. »  
  
“Everyone’s going to know _who_ I did in here,” Sunstreaker corrected. “My own little slut, isn’t that right? They’ll know you’re _mine_.”  
  
Cliffjumper made a strangled sound, offlining his optics and hiding his face against Sunstreaker’s chest, but there was no way he could hide the hard rev of his engine or sharp spike of arousal through his field.  
  
“You like that idea? You like the thought of me owning you?” Sunstreaker’s voice was growing rough, his optics blazing. One hand found its way to Cliffjumper’s spike and closed around it to pump it in counterpoint to his thrusts. “Maybe I should get you a collar, huh?”  
  
Overload crashed over Cliffjumper without warning, his entire frame going stiff with it. Pressurising fluid splashed over Sunstreaker’s hand and abdominal plating, and his valve clutched at Sunstreaker’s spike.  
  
Sunstreaker snarled and grabbed Cliffjumper’s hips, holding him in place while he continued to piston forcefully into the minibot’s valve. Cliffjumper moaned at the rough treatment, and when Sunstreaker overloaded several kliks later he was almost disappointed that it was over.  
  
He lay there with the larger mech slumped over him, enjoying the heavy weight pinning him down and the full feeling in his valve. His processor ticked over slowly, sorting through what had just happened. Cliffjumper had never given much thought to interfacing, but when he had he had always pictured himself as the aggressor. He’d never imagined that being treated so roughly, like a possession, like something to be owned and _used_ , would turn him on so much.  
  
And he had definitely never thought that he would find himself giving serious consideration to the idea of becoming another mech’s pet. He’d never thought that type of relationship would be for him, but right then he knew that if Sunstreaker—the mech he had considered a rival since their first joor at the training facility, taunted and been taunted by, competed with for the best scores in their division, had thoroughly hated at times for being so Primus-fragged _perfect_ —if this mech wanted to put a collar on him, he wouldn’t say no.  
  
“Frag,” he muttered, and then, because he felt it needed saying again, repeated it. “Frag.”  
  
“We just did,” Sunstreaker said, finally pushing himself back up. The smirk was already back on his face, and Cliffjumper made a half-hearted effort to kick at him.  
  
“Shut up, shiny.”  
  
Sunstreaker looked him up and down, and his smirk widened. “You’re a mess,” he commented, pulling a clean rag and a bottle of solvent from subspace and wiping his own plating down.  
  
“Of course you would have that slag with you,” Cliffjumper grumbled. Sunstreaker was right, though, he realised when he looked down at himself. His pelvis and thighs were streaked with lubricant and yellow paint transfers, and there were splatters of pressurising fluid on his abdominal plating. “Lemme use that when you’re done.”  
  
“You gonna get rid of these?” Sunstreaker asked, touching a streak of yellow on the inside of Cliffjumper’s thigh.  
  
Cliffjumper smirked. “Depends. Do you want me to?”  
  
“I don’t care,” Sunstreaker said, going back to scrubbing at his plating, apparently indifferent.  
  
“Then no.”  
  
Sunstreaker glanced at him, then flicked a second rag out of subspace, doused it in solvent, and tossed it at him. Cliffjumper nodded his thanks and cleaned himself off, careful only to remove the fluids from his plating and leave the paint streaks as they were.  
  
When they were finished, they walked silently back to the lecture hall together, and by mutual unspoken agreement split off to sit at opposite ends of the room. Cliffjumper paid even less attention to the science grunt at the front than he had before they left, distracted by the claim implied by Sunstreaker’s paint scrapes visibly marking him; he wondered if Sunstreaker was serious about getting a collar for him, and despite himself, he hoped that the answer to that was yes.

**Author's Note:**

> The sign of the globe is the religious symbol of Primus, similar to the sign of the cross in Catholicism. It is drawn as a circle starting at the processor, moving down to the spark, and coming back up to the processor, always a clockwise motion from the viewpoint of the mech marking the sign, and always with the two strongest fingers of the right hand. The reverse sign is drawn counterclockwise using the two weakest fingers of the right hand, and is often followed by pointing those fingers at a subject or subjects, generally giving a meaning similar to “fuck off” or “go to hell”. The abbreviated gesture is used often enough to be easily understood.


End file.
